


Tasting Faded Embers

by boatsaplenty



Series: The Devil Arcana [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Authority Challenge, Bondage and Discipline, Challenge Response, Communication Failure, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships, communication issues in spades, the Dragon of the West finds a teachable moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29841000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatsaplenty/pseuds/boatsaplenty
Summary: Iroh, the retired Dragon of the West, visits his deposed brother in prison to reminisce about old times, and reminds him who they used to be.--This was intended for the rare pair challenge's second prompt: Forbidden Love
Relationships: Iroh/Ozai, Ozai/Ursa (Avatar)
Series: The Devil Arcana [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193798
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: 2021 Avatar Pro-Shipping Rare Pair Challenge





	Tasting Faded Embers

**Author's Note:**

> I happened to have this unfinished fic on hand, and realized it would be perfect for the rare pair challenge. The original prompt before all this was "tough love."

Iroh hadn’t been sure whether or not to honor the woman’s request when she first demanded to speak with her jailed husband, but Ursa had been stalwart, determined in her will. So he acquiesced, led her through the winding stair into the Caldera prison tower, and allowed her to have one final confrontation with the man who had been Fire Lord. He watched in near silence when she leveled accusations at Ozai’s face and left him, likely forever. 

He knew that the two of them had always been in a complicated relationship. It didn’t last, but there had been a time where Ozai’s behavior had been calmer and he had listened to her, about many things, including about things that Iroh wished he hadn’t.

_“Don’t you dare lie to me again. My wife opened my eyes to your game,_ **_brother.”_ **

Ever since that day so many years ago, Iroh had a cold relationship with both of them, a coldness that didn’t once fade when the woman eventually left the palace. Ozai stopped trusting his brother after marrying Ursa, and afterwards, the damage was already done. Maybe Iroh should have predicted exactly what would go down; Ursa had a definitively sour opinion of him since the day they met after all, and she was sharp enough to see the truth. From day one, she hadn’t bought into his father’s stories about his exploits and golden character. 

But now she was gone. Ozai had long since broken the final straw with her.

On some level, Iroh regretted it had all come to this. As an adult, Ozai was at his best when his wife was tempering him, calming him. Maybe they could have had a halfway normal relationship if things had been better in the palace, if there wasn’t a war, (if Iroh had swallowed his selfishness and apologized to him). It was true that so much of this was a fault of Ozai’s own making, but in hindsight, it was all too clear where they’d all gone so wrong. How paths could have been corrected early for his little brother. And it was too late for all of that. 

But on the other hand, maybe this was an opportunity to have a proper chat with his brother now that he had no fire or throne to hide behind. Ozai was exposed now, vulnerable. More than just physically, if that devastated look on his face when Ursa left was anything to go by. 

There was no better time to confront him, about everything. 

He visited the tower in the late evening, when the streets were empty and quiet. The guards trusted Iroh, and did not feel the need to ask him any dangerous questions when he requested a private interrogation with their very special prisoner. The ever dutiful prison guards gave Iroh his space, and he smiled, tucking the keys into his tunic as he stepped onto the staircase. 

In his hands Iroh carried a tray with tea, gently steaming. He did not usually partake of this particular blend himself, but Iroh remembered to bring with him his brother’s secret favorite: oolong milk tea with a dash of honey and mint. Ozai had never openly told him about his preferred recipe, had repeatedly refused offers to share a cup with him over conversation; so Iroh had to find that information out on his own. It was rather ironic really, for such a sweet, fragile flavor to be preferred by such a bitter man. People said that there was a lot one could learn about a person based on the type of blend they wanted to whet their palate with, but only Iroh knew Ozai well enough to know why that one rang a chord for him. 

His footsteps echoed on the stone, announcing his arrival. The humble cell entered Iroh’s vision, his brother’s shadowed form hunched behind the bars. He cut a still unfamiliar figure dressed in simple prison rags, his hair tangled and unkempt, and even now, Iroh wasn’t used to seeing him so far from put-together. Growing up, Iroh remembered how vain his Ozai was, always caring about his appearance, how others saw him, almost to the point of obsession (and it wasn’t so much an issue of finding a reason for that tendency so much as it was narrowing it down to just one). He should be thankful he didn’t have access to a mirror to see how he looked then, as Iroh knew that his brother would hate it. As Iroh drew nearer, Ozai’s eyes flickered up to meet his, a vibrant splash of angry, fiery gold that stood apart in that dingy room. 

Iroh was never quite sure where he got those eyes. Neither he nor his parents carried such a bright flame in their gaze. The only other person in the family who inherited them was Zuko.

That was until Ozai had burned him, leaving one eye damaged and glassy, uneven. 

Iroh’s fingers tightened hard around the tray, and he remembered his purpose. Crossing the distance across the room, he set down the tea next to the bars and sat down next, not even giving Ozai the opportunity to refuse his company. 

“Brother, we have a long-overdue conversation that we need to have,” He said, leaning his back against the stone wall, close enough to pass his brother’s cup through the bars after pouring his tea. Heating it back to steaming with an easy gesture of his fingers, all too aware of Ozai’s sharp eyes watching the firebending with frustration in his gaze. “As much as you would probably enjoy sulking in here by yourself, we can’t avoid this forever.”

Ozai tested his drink once, seeming surprised (did he think he could keep secrets from Iroh?) before setting it aside. He crossed his arms firmly, looking straight ahead at the opposite wall, clearly wanting this meeting over with as soon as possible, “Say your piece and go.”

Iroh sighed. He was hoping that this would go smoothly, but with Ozai, it was all but guaranteed that his brother would be unnecessarily difficult. (Iroh wasn’t worried; Ozai was so easy to manage before he stole his crown, and he would be easy now.) “I told Zuko to not bother with his visits to you anymore, at least until I made my own progress” Iroh told him, noting the very real anger in the other man’s face. “I know you were trying to use him, preying on his confusion, for your own ends. I’m putting a stop to that. Zuko wants to give you your time, to come to the right conclusion on your own, but it’s probably for the best if I took responsibility for this.”

“Responsibility?” Ozai snorted disrespectfully. “You stood placidly on the sidelines, like a coward, letting everyone else make decisions for you. It’s what you did when father was alive, and you did it for _Zuko_ too _._ You’ve grown soft for a Dragon, brother.”

Iroh sipped at his tea calmly, considering. In some ways he wasn’t wrong. Where Zuko was concerned, Iroh had tried to subtly push him to the right path, but most of the time, he let his nephew take the lead. But fear of making another horrible mistake (of losing another young man he cared about) kept him from stepping up when he probably should have. Where Ozai had been overly decisive to a fault, Iroh had over thought and dragged his feet at every turn. That was the flaw that had torn them apart from the beginning after all; if Iroh had stood up to his father back then, maybe Ozai wouldn’t have borne a grudge for him. But on the other hand, if he’d done that, his brother may not have had children either, and _that_ Iroh couldn’t regret.

Around and around in circles, lashing himself with maybes. More excuses not to act. 

Once they had put into place between the two of them a strange sense of balance. Iroh knew that most would call that past a sin–Lady Ursa had certainly disapproved–but sin may be the tool to steer Ozai back to the right path. It wasn’t as though he had much to lose. 

But Ozai was wrong about one thing; Iroh had hidden his fangs, but they were still quite sharp. 

He chuckled, nursing his cup, “I hardly think you have the right to criticize, little brother. Your ferocity is nothing more than a cover to hide how confused and clueless you are.” He only laughed at the angry growl that Ozai directed at him, allowing himself to feel that sense of power that Iroh hadn’t dared to enjoy since his days as the Dragon of the West. Ozai couldn’t punish Iroh for speaking his mind. He couldn’t do anything at all. 

He’d turned himself into a tightly caged bird instead of a mighty phoenix, and his last remaining flame was the one carried in his ferocious gaze. Iroh was still enthralled with that, even then. 

“It’s so ironic, that even after time turned you into this bitter, foolish man, you still have the same beautiful golden eyes as back then.” There was the tinkling sound of shattered ceramic, and Iroh glanced over with an easy-going smile to find his brother had smashed his cup under his palm, staring at Iroh with a frozen, tense look in his face. “Now, you should be more careful, Ozai. This set was quite expensive.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ozai sneered, “after all this time, you’re still a _degenerate.”_

Iroh hummed, “You never cared very much about that until Ursa told you to care.” The real turning point was when Azulon found out and married his brother off, partially as a way of forcing them apart; and his father’s bias against his youngest very much played a part. 

(Azulon had blamed Ozai for it, Iroh remembered, and he _did_ regret not fixing that at least.) 

Ursa just nailed the point home, making the problem impossible to ignore, even for Ozai. Somehow though, Iroh didn’t believe that she’d shoved all of that out of his brain, musing. “Something tells me you haven’t changed _that_ much,” Iroh told him, mercilessly, ignoring how the younger man’s form tightened like a drawn bow. “So how much did you regale our Lady Ursa with to make her denounce me so harshly? Was it just the bare minimum? Or all the juicy, little details? Were you quite as close and satisfied with her as you were with me?”

Ozai’s hands tightened into white-knuckled fists, thin trails of blood leaking down the grooves of his fingers from the cuts on his palms inflicted by sad, broken ceramic. _What a waste of a fine teacup._ Iroh wondered if Ozai would be cooperative receiving medical treatment, or if his brother had to be forced to accept that too. “My wife understood _values_ far better than you did,” Ozai spat defensively, “don’t you dare think that you can talk about her so casually.” 

A give. Already on the defense; Iroh knew his brother wouldn’t be difficult to crack. “And why not? She left you, little brother. She’s not going to come back to ‘protect your innocence’ anymore.” He paused, smile becoming mischievous, “Not like you had much to begin with.” 

**“Fuck you,”** Ozai snarled, slamming his fist into the bars. 

Iroh didn’t flinch. 

Instead he laughed, “‘Fuck me?’ Somehow I doubt you’ll be able to pull that off now, after all these years. You couldn’t summon the will to do that with fire at your disposal. Now? Let’s just say I have my doubts.” He drained what was left of his tea and set it aside on it’s tray with a faint clinking sound, while Ozai fumed in anger (and embarrassment) a few feet away. Iroh decided to twist the knife a little further, “I’m still curious though. Did she ever find out just how much of a glutton for attention you are? What about how much you liked having your hair pulled?”

The ex-Fire Lord snapped. “Shut your mouth!” Ozat was on his feet with a roar, fingers tight around the bars of his cell. If there had still been fire inside him at that moment, an inferno would have erupted from between his teeth. “What do you even want? Is there a reason for you to be saying this? Or did you just come here to torture me?”

Iroh’s sly manipulation fell away as smoothly as if it had never been there to begin with, becoming something more genuine to contrast with his behavior only moments prior. “I don’t really know what you mean by that, Ozai,” Iroh implored patiently. “There’s a big reason why I could never fight against you when you did things I disagreed with… And why do you think I would ever engage in _torture_? You do know that I love you, right?”

“Liar,” Ozai hissed, “This was only ever about lust to you.”

Now that just wasn’t true. Lust was only part of the equation. 

“You’re wrong, and it wasn’t a lie,” Iroh told him simply. “I probably shouldn’t still love you, after everything you’ve done and how many innocent people you’ve hurt. Even if you weren’t my brother. I should have fallen out of love the day you burned your own child for no good reason at all,” The torches on the walls flared white-hot in time with his words, and he felt a quiet satisfaction to see Ozai take an involuntary step backwards in response. Then, with his sigh, the heat dimmed and died away, “But because I couldn’t fight you, I didn’t stop it. I suppose the truest thing about those emotions is that we don’t choose who we fall in love with. And I know that it was my fault that so soon after I lost my wife, you ended up taking her place in my heart.”

Ozai glared at him, narrow-eyed, a clear and obvious expression of doubt in his gleaming eyes. He didn’t respond in words, but Iroh could tell that his brother didn’t believe him. Just to confirm, he spoke up anyway, “Do you think I’m lying to you again, little brother?”

The younger man snorted, “You’re _always_ lying. And what do your pretty words matter, Iroh? You’re just going to walk away, like you always do. You gave up and walked away when father told you to, and you’re just going to do the same thing all over again. I’m done with you.”

Iroh considered that, and he couldn’t deny the frustration he felt at Ozai’s obstinance. But he had come to the cell prepared for that possibility. “I guess I’ll have to prove it to you then,” He said tightly, rising to his feet, pulling the cell key from his tunic belt and holding it up for Ozai to see. “I said I was going to take responsibility for you, and I certainly don’t need your permission after how many bridges you’ve already burned, Ozai.” 

Ozai’s jaw tightened, and as Iroh pressed the key into the lock, his eyes flickered to the space over his brother’s shoulder, clearly aiming for an escape route.

Iroh wasn’t going to give him that.

The moment he turned the key, the older Prince clenched his free fist, calling forth a wall of brilliant yellow flames that filled the room behind his back, undulating and crackling with fierce energy. Ozai had nowhere to go except the far wall of his cell, staring at the blaze with a twisted expression of need and jealousy that was telegraphed so clearly. Illuminated in the glare of fire, Iroh’s cool face and narrowed eyes reminded all who saw him that he still carried the fangs of a Dragon hidden under his layers of patience and politeness. He stepped inside the cell and slammed the door closed behind him with an easy gesture, no longer establishing distance.

Ozai swallowed, tense to his core. He remembered this brand of Iroh, thought long gone. 

Iroh seized his shirtfront, looking deep into those golden eyes he’d admired so much, “I won’t ask you for much today, Ozai. Except for this: admit to me that you deserve to be locked up here for what you did. Tell me the words ‘I deserve this,’ and I’ll go easy on you today.”

He knew that Ozai wouldn’t cooperate. Iroh knew he wasn’t so cornered that he would immediately take the right path when presented with it (but he also knew Ozai’s hate was not so genuine either, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken such a soft solution of imprisoning Iroh after Ba Sing Se instead of executing him). “Get your hand off of me,” Ozai said roughly, all but confirming Iroh’s thoughts for him. It was almost like he _wanted_ Iroh to punish him. 

“Not the right answer, little brother,” Iroh told him. His grip tightened, and dragged Ozai into a kiss, radiating heat that enveloped his brother’s now cooler skin. The former Fire Lord was not a weak man, even as he had lost so much motivation to take of himself after losing his fire, but he didn’t get violent as Iroh pressed into him, shoving Ozai’s back into the wall. Ozai only tensed up for a moment, then something in his stance went soft and boneless as Iroh prodded his lips open. He pulled back for a moment to laugh, “You missed this, didn’t you, Ozai? Missed me?” 

“Shut up,” Ozai muttered, avoiding Iroh’s eyes in the way he used to when he was embarrassed and didn't want anyone to know. (He never wanted anyone to know.)

Iroh hummed, claiming the other man’s mouth again, using one hand to firmly press down on his brother’s shoulder to guide him into a seated position. Then he could have a chance to wrap Ozai’s injured hand with one of the extra lengths of cloth he kept in his pouch, while he was sitting back. Easier to reach that way; he still remembered a past when height was less of an issue for him, for both of them. That was one of the problems with growing old, having his body compact in on itself. But then, it was also true that Ozai had been fortunate enough to inherit the height genes in the family, not that it mattered now. 

Sitting up over Ozai’s form, Iroh found himself idly smoothing out long black hair, thoughts occupied with faded memories of a young Prince seeking comfort and attention with the one person who would give it to him. 

If he had been wiser in his youth, Iroh never would have done it, but he couldn’t undo the mistakes of the past. And Ozai needed guidance, even if it came from sinful temptation. 

He was gratified to find Ozai responding, hungrily chasing after the spark of flame the retired Dragon carried behind his teeth, needy in a way that he always had been, but could never stand to admit out loud. He even groaned in dissatisfaction when Iroh extinguished it, taking the tiny fire away from him. Iroh pulled away, whispering to him, “Three little words, brother. Is that so hard? Just tell me what I want to hear and I’ll give you what you want so badly.”

“No,” Ozai said stubbornly, his expression becoming challenging.

Well. If he _wanted_ Iroh to push him… 

“Have it your way, Ozai,” Iroh purred and distracted him with another open-mouthed kiss. While he was busy with that, his left hand–unoccupied until that moment–dipped downward and began to loosen the ties on the younger man’s pants. 

Ozai reflexively jumped when Iroh pulled the red cloth away to touch him, making a muffled noise of surprise into the kiss. Iroh gripped his brother’s member in his firm fist (‘already half-hard’ he thought with amusement) and began to jerk and massage him, an expert in his movements despite how much time had passed since he’d done this for another man. It had been years since then, but Iroh’s mind was still so sharp, enough for him to remember exactly how Ozai had reacted to this, of where and how to drive his brother mad with desperate need using nothing more than his hand. 

And that was still the case. Iroh was pleased to know that Ozai was still reacting to his touch just like he used to. “You’re so pent up…” The retired Dragon told him in a faintly mocking tone, “It’s almost like no one’s touched you since your wife left. Am I right?”

Ozai was animated now, gripping and pushing at Iroh’s tunic, making undignified noises into where his mouth was still being devoured. Then Iroh squeezed him just so under the tip of his cock, driving him to arch his back, spine digging roughly at immoveable stonework. Ozai started to pant, his hips shifting instinctively, member starting to twitch as he neared completion.

And then Iroh dropped him. 

Pleasure denied, Ozai choked in surprise and stared up to find Iroh smiling calmly, “What…?”

“Not until you’ve learned your lesson,” Iroh murmured as explanation.

“Are you crazy?” Ozai snapped, one of his knees digging roughly into Iroh’s gut. “With your own words, you said you weren’t going to torture me.” Iroh didn’t respond, so he continued, “You think you can get away with that? What would the _Fire Lord_ say if he found out about his own uncle doing something so crass with his father?”

Iroh shook his head, unconcerned. “Zuko isn’t interested in finding out about his uncle’s sexual escapades,” He looked up, lips curved just slightly, “and you’re bluffing anyway. You would never sacrifice your pride to ever admit to Zuko of all people of how vulnerable you are, and that’s if he would even believe you over me.” He shook his head, his crooked smile becoming a touch more sly, “Besides, the only reason why you’re protesting is because of how much you want me to make you finish.” Ozai clenched his teeth and looked away, prompting a chuckle, “You see?” The older man kissed him on the cheek, knowing that he’d already won.

A token resistance, to satisfy his pride. Iroh wanted to laugh.

So he started over. Iroh started to edge his brother in repetition, pulling back and relaxing every time Ozai neared his orgasm. When Ozai cracked and tried to take care of it himself, Iroh was forced to use the soft belt from his tunic to tie the man’s wrists together, hooking them over his neck so they were face to face. This way he could admire his brother’s lovely golden eyes up close and personal as they clouded over with desire and arousal. 

In his youth, Ozai had enjoyed a modicum of pain, whether it was a tight grip on his hair (always kept loose and flowing) or on his waist, but only if it came from the right hands. Iroh’s hands. 

As far as Iroh knew, Ozai had never allowed another man to take him that way, and Ursa was–by all accounts–a traditional woman in all the ways that mattered. He felt flattered to have been placed in such a special position. 

Iroh talked to him while he worked, conversationally and almost gentle in his tone, “I always thought it was a little funny for you to call yourself a Phoenix, brother. Maybe it’s because it’s the symbol of change, or maybe it was for...other reasons.” He smiled against Ozai’s cheek, starting over on the edge once more, much to Ozai’s distress, “Did you want to be the Phoenix to my Dragon, little brother? All you had to do was ask, and now, all I need is three little words.”

Ozai was sweating, both from exhaustion and the sauna-like heat pouring from Iroh’s body in waves, filling the room. He was shifting his lower body searchingly, trying to find an angle that would rub off just that little bit more, but to no avail. In time, he tried to speak up, when the build up became too difficult for him (anyone really) to take in brave silence. “Iroh…” He gasped, throat sore and overworked from all the noise he’d been making, “brother, please…”

His budding surrender was sweet, but not enough. “Sorry Ozai, that’s close, but still not the words I’m looking for…”

Ozai made a strangled noise into his chest, hands clenching spasmodically across Iroh’s shoulders. Despite his defiant stance, it was clear that he was crumbling, a needy hunger rumbling through his body. He wouldn’t need that kind of time, but Iroh knew he could do this all day if he really wanted. Iroh indulged in a slower, more sensual kiss, burying his right hand in his brother’s long hair, stroking and tugging lightly at the roots. The latter action drew a noise out of Ozai’s throat that Iroh hadn’t heard in years, humming in pleasure at the rare whine. 

Iroh hadn’t been counting how many times he’d pushed Ozai to the precipice, only to drag him back down to earth, but he noticed when it only took a few more rounds of merciless teasing for the ex-firebender to finally snap. 

It started with Iroh catching the sound of Ozai mumbling something quietly under his breath, his eyes tightly shut. “Hmm? What was that?” He placed his free hand to Ozai’s forehead, pressing his fingers into his scalp to tilt his head back. “You’re going to have to speak up, Ozai. Otherwise I won’t be able to hear you. And then I’ll just have to continue…”

“N-no…” Ozai’s hands tightened in the cloth of Iroh’s collar, and his desperate need for release did enough to strengthen his will enough to speak, in a whisper, “I...I deserve this.”

“This cell?” Iroh confirmed for him, trailing fingers through his hair. His brother nodded, his energy almost completely spent. “That’s correct, you do. But I want you to say it one more time, louder this time. Just so I know that you’re serious,” Iroh told him. His brother made a rough, distressed noise, trying to break free of the tie. He was punished with a tightened grip around his cock, and all movement ceased. “C’mon, my Phoenix, just one more time for me.”

Ozai went limp, giving up, the next time he spoke was completely clear and raw, “I deserve this.”

“That’s right, I knew you could do it,” the Dragon said, his eyes narrowed, at odds with his encouraging tone. It was the precursor to the instant where Iroh finally gave him release. In another moment, he had Ozai howling with a noise that outstripped all others, crumbling apart in Iroh’s hand and collapsing into his embrace. After all the dragging out that Iroh put him through, Ozai must have experienced something truly mind-bending, enough to render him totally pliant and subdued afterwards (Iroh remembered what defeated his ferocity so deeply). Dazed and out of sorts, he didn’t even react while the older man untied his hands and pulled a handkerchief from his waist to clean them up with, praising him, “The first step is always admitting it.”

As Ozai slid down the stone wall to crumple onto his straw mat, his consciousness was already fading. Before his blurring vision, Iroh set three items on the rough floor before him: a fine comb, a hand mirror, and a simple crimson hairpin. 

“The more you repent, the better things will be for you, little brother,” He said in explanation, brushing Ozai’s hair out of his face. “I will be back to visit you again, with another lesson. Hope you’re looking forward to it.” Then Iroh rose to his feet and exited the cell, casually knowing that his brother no longer had either the energy or the will to try to escape then. Locking the door was merely a formality. 

And Ozai was too exhausted to watch him leave. All he could do was clutch the hairpin tightly to his chest, and unwillingly remember bygone days as blackness took over his vision. 

Their lives would have been so much easier for both of them if they had been able to truly hate each other. 

But they knew that they never could. 

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon!Iroh's color scheme is based off of the jasmine flower by the way


End file.
